


Of That Hurt

by BlessedPicturesPresents



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [3]
Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Gen, Major Character Injury, Non-Sexual Bondage, Teeth, Television, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27387271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedPicturesPresents/pseuds/BlessedPicturesPresents
Summary: Scratch forces Wake to watch one of his newest videos.
Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961245
Kudos: 5





	Of That Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Poets of the Fall's "Dancing on Broken Glass".

“The game this time’s very simple, Wake,” Scratch hisses in his ear, mouth against him.

Wake can feel Scratch’s hot breath shiver down his neck. His body is tense, and he desperately wants to jerk against the ropes tying him to this chair, jerk away from Scratch’s mouth and voice, but there’s the tip of a blade against his throat. It slowly traces up his neck, jaw and cheek, resting under his eye, right against the bone of his eye socket. Scratch lets out a soft little laugh, tickling Wake’s ear. It’s hard to hear Scratch’s words past the overwhelming thumping of Wake’s head; he doesn’t remember how he got here, but the pain in his head seems like an obvious clue. He vaguely wonders what Scratch clubbed him with this time.

“Hey. You listening?” Scratch nicks his face, ever so slightly; Wake can feel the single bead of blood well up on his face, warm against the cold of the room.

Wake swallows, blinks, forces himself not to wince and make it worse. “One more time?”

Scratch lets out a short and clearly annoyed huff. “I said. You and me, we’re going to watch a little TV show. If you close your eyes, or look away, I’ll cut them out.”

“Little much, don’t you think?” Wake responds as calmly as he can manage. Despite his inability to raise his voice beyond a short murmur, he sounds furious to his own ears. He’s absolutely certain Scratch either doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, or gets off on it. He’s honestly not sure which is worse.

“Absolutely not! I’ve noticed you haven’t been watching my shows lately,” Scratch sighs, and Wake can hear the metal scrape of another chair against the concrete floor. “I put all this damn effort into making them, and you just walk away? Or ignore it?” Scratch pulls away from Wake’s ear and the chair he’s moving pops up in Wake’s peripheral vision. A second later, Scratch lands on it heavily, sliding down somewhat, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The knife is prominently displayed in his right hand, and with the way he’s folding himself, it’s the hand closest to Wake. The dim light slides over the blade as Scratch moves, and Wake can’t help but swallow nervously. “I can’t have that. I’m trying to make art here, Alan.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“That’s cute. Sticks and stones, buddy. But look, I can play nice. I get it. You and me, we’ve got a lil-” Scratch shifts in his chair, gently punching Wake’s arm several times with his fists; the writer pointedly does not move, eyes on the dead TV set before them. “Yanno. Give and take thing going here. I take, you give, you know how it is. I just want to make sure you have the right idea in mind when you get back to writing. So, you be good, you watch my movie… I’ll let you go.”

Wake snorts. “You know I don’t trust you, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Alan!” Scratch responds brightly. He turns in his chair and slumps down again, but before his arms have settled across his chest again, Scratch reaches into the air and snaps. The TV lights up, static violently shifting up the screen. “You have to tell me what you think of this one, I think it was.. really artfully done. Gimme your real life, honest opinion, kay?”

The picture finally flickers on, showing nothing but a concrete floor. Whoever’s holding the camera shifts it in their hand, letting out a slow breath that fogs the mic’s sound. They lean the camera enough that it pans down their body, showing Scratch’s consistent wardrobe: suit pants, tight white shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up. No coat. There’s blood streaked across his chest and arms, enough that it stains his shirt and his skin in equal measure. It’s like someone sprayed him with a squirt bottle, three or four times over. The Scratch in the video lets out another slow sigh, and then flips the camera up to show the rest of his room. At the same time, the Scratch to Wake’s right taps his arm excitedly.

“Look, look,” Scratch says in a stage whisper. Wake shifts against the ropes tying him to the chair, testing them ever so slightly, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and chest. “I set the scene here perfectly.”

It takes a moment for the camera to get used to the shift in light, going from the bright white that Scratch’s shirt gave off to the dull murky light of the room. There’s a figure tied to a chair in the center of the bare concrete room, their head hanging forward. Something dark drips down their body, onto their already bloodstained jeans.

Wake’s stomach lurches. He feels sick. He already knows where this is going, but he knows what happens if he dares look away.

“Hey hey, bestseller,” says the Scratch on the TV, walking towards TV-Wake’s bleeding body. “Wake up, cmon. The people need to see their star.” A hand reaches forward from behind the camera and taps at Wake’s face hard, getting a short moan of pain and movement in response. “You’ll have to forgive him, heh. Sleepyhead can’t keep his eyes open.” TV-Wake rolls his head back. He’s panting, chest heaving. Blood is smeared across his face and has clearly dribbled down from his mouth. He looks like he’s been hit, or something, Wake can’t really tell beyond the splotchy color in his face and the weird slack way his cheeks seem to rest. “Theeere we go. Hey there, how’re we feeling.”

The Wake on the TV moans, ever so slightly. Blood slips from between his lips down his cheek; Wake feels his stomach lurch again, dangerously.

“So, this is my good buddy Alan. Alan Wake, yknow, the writer? _Sudden Stop_ , _Night Springs_ , all that? We all know him, we all love him,” the Scratch on the TV is saying, taking a hold of TV-Wake’s jaw; he shifts it side to side, showing the gore streaked on his skin. “But we were talking the other day, and he was all, you know what the Dark Place just-” he clicks his tongue- “doesn’t have these days? Good dental care.”

The Scratch to Wake’s right giggles. “You know it’s not part of the benefits?” he stage-whispers, elbowing Wake hard. “Darkness, man. No respect for good insurance. Who doesn’t include dental these days?”

“And man, his jaw was aching him something fierce. Keeping him up at night, not letting him write.. it was a whole mess.” The camera switches to TV-Scratch’s face for half a second, looking up at his wide smirk. “You know me, I can’t help myself- I see someone struggling..” He shrugs with an easy looseness, and he laughs. The camera flips back to show TV-Wake again, TV-Scratch slipping the hand up his ruined face, up against his slack lip, and forces his mouth open. TV-Wake doesn’t fight him, letting him hook his thumb up against the bloody stump of what clearly used to be where a tooth rested, tilting TV-Wake’s face back. There’s blood leaking out of him, down over TV-Scratch’s fingers and his own chin; he gags softly on some of it, and Wake feels bile raising in his own throat, feels like gagging himself. He can practically taste the blood on his tongue. Whatever TV-Scratch used, he was brutal in his ministrations: chunks of teeth can be seen glinting softly in the back of Wake’s ruined mouth, one or two sad bloody chunks in the holes where his back molars all used to be. Most of the front teeth are still there, bright red, though Wake can tell several of them have been chipped in whatever struggle he must have given Scratch.

“Look at that,” Scratch murmurs, at the same time the Scratch on the television does. They both sound almost reverential. Wake truly thinks he’s going to be sick. He folds in on himself somewhat, breathing hard, and swallows, trying to stop himself. He’s sure puking is going to count in Scratch’s book as not paying attention; he stares up at the screen, trying to calm his breathing. He realizes he’s shaking. He can hear Scratch moving, but he doesn’t want to look. Let the fucker stab him, he doesn’t care.

The camera pulls back, and TV-Scratch’s hand goes back off the screen; he releases TV-Wake’s face, letting him droop forward again, blood lazily dripping from his mouth onto his clothing. There’s a pair of heavy duty pump pliers on TV-Wake’s lap, streaked in gore; TV-Scratch picks them up, clicking them a few times for the camera’s benefit. “You know, all that fancy schooling, all those tools, and none of them as effective as a good pair of pliers.” The pliers tap against TV-Wake’s face, and he moans gently. “Don’t you think, Alan? We got those suckers out in, what. Few minutes? 20 maybe?” TV-Scratch flips the pliers a few times in his hand, letting out a soft laugh. “Hell of a bargain.”

Scratch is still moving beside him, clothing rustling, the knife glinting slightly. Wake doesn’t move, slowing his breathing as much as he can, and glances to the right. Scratch looks bored, playing with the knife; he notices Wake looking at him and points the knife at him, smiling. “Eyes forward, Alan,” he murmurs softly, and Wake looks back at the television, fighting the urge to vomit again.

On the television, the pliers are leaning up against TV-Wake’s face again, pushing him back in the chair he’s tied to, pushing softly against his slack lips. TV-Wake moans again, a soft pitiful noise that jars Wake’s stomach further.

“Don’t go out on me now, Alan, we have to show the people what they came here for.” Despite how dim it is in the video, Wake realizes that his television counterpart’s face is wet; he must have been crying for some time. 20 minutes his ass. Christ knows how long Scratch has been torturing him by this point. Heat flushes up Wake’s chest and neck. He feels woozy. The pounding in his head is getting worse from the strain of stress and fear; he lets out a soft huff of air as he tries to catch his breath but it’s out of his control again. TV-Scratch pushes TV-Wake’s ripped lips open and angles the head of the pliers in, opening them slowly and tapping them against the top left canine. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint, would we?”

TV-Wake makes a terrible, choked-sob of a noise, and Wake realizes he’s trying to speak. It’s some garbled, half-conscious begging, but between what has to be shock and exhaustion, the lack of teeth and the pliers in his mouth, he can’t really form any words that make sense. TV-Scratch shushes him, like some twisted mother hushing her weeping babe; he chuckles, closing the pliers slowly against the tooth. TV-Wake’s noises are getting louder, but volume doesn’t help the chopped salad of consonants. He weakly tries to struggle, the sounds breaking down into outright sobbing, and TV-Scratch sighs, annoyed.

Scratch snorts under his breath. “Love this part,” he mutters, barely audible, running the tip of the blade against Wake’s arm. Wake doesn’t move, doesn’t look, pointedly stares at his own face on the screen. Just barely visible behind TV-Wake is another chair, and a sick realization takes hold. The ropes on the screen, the chair, the floor and walls: it’s all the same room they’re in now, all the same ropes he’s currently trapped in. The flush in his body is threatening to make him pass out, or vomit, or scream, but his body can’t decide, and he just feels woozy and terrified, blood pounding so loudly through his skull that he can barely hear the TV anymore. How can he avoid this fate? How does he get out of here? He wishes for not the first nor the last time that Zane would appear again, help him out of this, save him, pull him away from his dark doppelganger.

“Sorry, folks, he’s not playing nice. Hold on a second,” TV-Scratch hisses, and the camera drops, falling to the ground and skittering across the floor. When the view finally settles, it shows TV-Wake’s body violently jerking against his bonds, TV-Scratch’s legs leaning forward, and the barely audible, soft, sickening crunch of something shattering between pliers. Whatever TV-Scratch is saying is obscured by the loud warbling cries and sobs of TV-Wake.

The TV’s screen suddenly goes black, the set itself making a sick cracking noise before smoking slightly. Scratch laughs under his breath, letting out a short sigh. He almost sounds content. Wake doesn’t move, just sits there, leaning forward and terrified, waiting as Scratch shifts around in his seat, stands with a violent and sudden motion. The knife clatters to the ground, making Wake jump; Scratch stands and paces in front of Wake, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What’d you think? Don’t hold back, I can take it.” Wake doesn’t say a word. Scratch stops moving, leans forward, peering at Wake. “Hey, you in there?” He waves a hand in front of Wake’s face. “Earth to Alan, ground control speaking.” When Wake doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, Scratch makes a short, annoyed noise under his breath, moving closer. He takes Wake’s jaw in a hand, gripping tightly and jerking his face up. “Cmon, sunshine, talk to me. Didn’t you like my movie?”

Wake simply stares at him, face defiant despite the terror coursing through him. Scratch raises an eyebrow, grips Wake’s face tighter, but the writer doesn’t make a noise, just swallows the pain, doesn’t move.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Scratch murmurs ever-so-softly. His eyes are dangerous. “Good thing I brought pliers after all, huh?”

* * *

Wake jerks awake with a start, rolling off the bed and stumbling violently into the office. He vomits up the nothing in his stomach into the wastebasket beside the desk, his body soaked in sweat. Tearing at the jackets he’s wearing, Wake checks every single tooth in his mouth with a terrified, paranoid tongue; it takes five or six rounds before he manages to get the jackets off, throwing them across the room and pushing two of his own fingers into his aching mouth. Wake checks them one at a time with shaking fingertips. No gaping bloody holes, no chips, nothing missing, nothing broken. It takes Wake a good ten minutes before he can finally breathe enough to feel like he can stand; it takes him even longer to stop shaking enough to actually do so, and he still has to lean heavily against the desk, practically dragging himself off the floor. When his legs finally cooperate and take his weight again, he stretches himself out, running a shaky hand through sweaty hair. He’s okay. It’s okay.

The little glass bottle sitting in the center of the desk catches his eye, perched carefully in front of his typewriter, a cork neatly keeping the four large back molars safely nestled within. There’s a little red ribbon tied around the bottle’s neck, like a gift from a lover.

Wake’s legs give out from under him. He almost misses the wastebasket when he vomits again.


End file.
